October

Jacob Eigen

 
 

When he was a spider
exuding thread between rocks, 
he considered his earlier life as a man 
and recalled with objective curiosity the belief 

that pleasure, true pleasure, constituted 
achievement. “Yes,” he told the fly as he bound it — 
“I remember lying in bed in Queens 
and watching snow accumulate on the windowsill, 

when I didn’t know what I was
or what to kill to be happy. 
I’d bike down Northern Boulevard 
to the Thai place, thinking of the nights I’d spent

on a woman’s couch. The way we’d talk 
about nothing — the foreign exchange student 
in her middle school, or the watch 
I’d look at in the department store 

while my mother tried things on.” 
“That was your problem,” said the fly
which looked fearless and elegant now, 
no longer even beating its wings. 

“You and your whole species. 
You tasted the stuff you called 
love, and then other draughts 
seemed thin and bitter. Better

to do without.” And its eyes glinted 
as it extended its palpus 
to suck in the toxins that would dissolve it 
into bones and fluids overnight.

 

Jacob Eigen is a poet and fiction writer. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Salmagundi, The Iowa Review, and The New Republic.

Image: Detail from Keystone View Co., Writing Spider and Web, ca. 1900, gelatin silver print. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.